


To See Him Smile

by SherlockedGinger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Male Slash, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:24:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedGinger/pseuds/SherlockedGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A smile.That's all Molly wants to see. But its not going to happen. She knows that now. Not until this is all over and Sherlock is free to see John. John is the only one who will be able to make him smile again. Which is only fair considering Sherlock is the only one who will ever make John smile again.Post-Reichenbach angst/reunion fic with eventual Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

They all drink for different reasons.

Greg Lestrade seeks a moment of reprieve from those sharp, gnawing claws of guilt that tear at him day and night. For a sliver in time he can pretend that he is not responsible; even partially, for the death of the greatest man that London - hell the entire world, had seen for a very long time. Sherlock Holmes. He likes to think that they had a "friendship" of some sorts. Not that Sherlock would ever consider him a friend. But what sort of friend betrays the other? What sort of friend allows seeds of doubt to be planted, to take root within their mind and to question the authenticity of the other? It's no wonder Sherlock didn't want friends, if that is all they had to offer. Distrust and doubt. That's all he offered in the end. Shouldn't friends be better? Yes. They should. And most are.

Which brings us to the matter of Lestrade's other friend - Dr. John Watson. Managed to destroy him as well. Indirectly; but it still counts in his mind. He'd felt a certain kinship with the friendly ex-soldier almost immediately, when Sherlock first drug the poor man on to a crime scene. They formed a fast friendship built upon commiseration and appreciation when it came to Sherlock. They would laugh and complain together; offer moral support when Sherlock was being particularly difficult. There were a number of times he and John ended up together at a pub, because John needed to get out of the crossfire of a battle between Sherlock and boredom. John was a good man. Friendly, hard-working, funny and the only one who could keep up with Sherlock. The only one on their side anyway. But now he's entirely different. Empty. Silent. Soldiering on trying to pretend that he is managing. Pretending that he isn't irreparably broken. But Greg sees through it. He's one of the few who can; with Molly and Ms. Hudson being the only others. He sees that John has been reduced to just a husk of the man he'd known. And it was his fault. He drinks to escape.

 

Molly Hooper drinks because they need her to. Greg and John; two men struggling against depression and despondency. Failing miserably. They need her; a third, to balance them out. To be there as support. Because the three of them are all that's left of Sherlock. So far as they know. The three of them were some of the closest to him and they seek refuge within his memory. She draws them together, reminds them that they aren't alone in their misery. Holds their trio together like glue. Takes care of them. She promised Sherlock that she would. Well she promised him she'd care for John. He was the only one Sherlock was concerned with at the end. And she understands. He loves John; and to him, the only one that matters in all of this. But she cares for Greg too and she won't let him fall. So she kills two birds with one stone. Or heals them with one pill. Maybe that's a better analogy. But she also battles her own guilt and grief. Sherlock is alive and well. Okay, not well, but he's alive. But John isn't. Well he is technically alive, his heart is beating. No, maybe it's not. Sherlock was his heart and now he's gone. But John is breathing. So medically he is alive. But that doesn't really mean much. He is wasting away; dying right before her eyes. He is fighting it, of course. This desolate apathy rooted in all-encompassing grief. Trying to continue valiantly on with his life. Struggling against it; he is a soldier to the end. But he's losing.

And Molly has to watch; knowing she holds the key to his salvation. A whispered assurance would do it. "He is alive." And she's so tempted. But she can't. That's something else she promised to Sherlock; her silence. She drinks because they hurt. She drinks because she can't stop it.

 

John doesn't drink for the reason most people assume. He hates assumptions. They think he drinks to forget. That he wants to drown Sherlock from his memories. Drive away the nagging voice in his head that rings out in a familiar baritone a hundred times each day. Proclaiming "Boring" "Dull." "Idiot" within his mind. But that's not it. He doesn't want to forget Sherlock. It would be so easy; a convenient escapes, to abandon his memory in a drunken stupor. But that would be a grave dishonor to his legacy. The lowest insult he could offer. He is not seeking to forget. He doesn't ever want to forget Sherlock. Not for a moment. He's not seeking salvation; or peace, at the bottom of a bottle. He is not his sister. But there is a dull ache. It throbs constantly within him; created by a void in his life and soul that will never be filled again. It drains his energy; his resolve. The alcohol dulls it just a bit; softening the sharper edges. Giving him the strength to keep on fighting another day. He's not seeking numbness; he just needs to lessen the intensity. He actually wants to hurt, just a bit. Because Sherlock is worth the pain. He views it as a strange sort of offering to his memory, his legacy. He wants Sherlock to know; wherever he is, that he is still on the battlefield. That he is still a soldier. Because that is what Sherlock would want; he's sure. Sherlock wouldn't want to see him to crumble over his death; and he wouldn't want Sherlock to see him in pieces. He can't stand the idea of Sherlock seeing him destroyed, by his own heart at that. Keep it together, he reminds himself constantly. For Sherlock's sake. For his memory. Fight off the grief and it's accompanying madness; lingering like a phantom within his peripheral. And the drinks help. They soothe; like a balm, allowing his facade to continue. Because that's all it is. A farce. John's become a rather polished actor and sometimes he even manages to convince himself that he is managing. That one day he will be okay. He drinks for strenght.

 

They all drink for different reasons; but they drink together.It's an unspoken pact the three of them have formed. It would be so easy for one of them to drown in their sorrows; so easy to just let it all go and fall. So they keep each other afloat in their respective seas of wretchedness. Temper each other's intake. Temper each other's misery.

 

It's like clockwork. Every Saturday night; almost without fail Molly strolls into the pub at 6:25 on the dot. Greg comes shortly after; usually around 6:30. They order their drinks and John's as well; then find a secluded booth, usually tucked in the back. John limps in a while later; around sits and there are a round of greetings. Pleasantries are exchanged; weather, work, news ect. Not that any of them really care for it. But they a struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy; its one of the things that helps to keep them sane. And they sip at their drinks. They have just enough to dim bitter reality and loosen their tongues. Then they talk; about him. They allow the memories to flow and wind about them in a bittersweet comfort.

 

Greg starts tonight.

"I remember the first time I met you, John." John tries for a smile at the memory, but instead manages a wry grimace. "A Study in Pink." he murmurs, recalling his first blog posting about a case.

"Yeah. I didn't know what to think at first; Sherlock bringing a partner to the crime scene. I was so pissed. But I shouldn't have been surprised I guess. Since he didn't like the Yarders he just found his own partner. Makes sense. But still; I never expected to see him with anyone. Never expected anyone to voluntarily be around him. Isn't that horrible?"

"Well he was rather intolerable back then." Molly offers as reassurance. John doesn't nod; but doesn't disagree either.

"Yeah. Well anyway, I knew you were..." he trails off for a moment searching for a word. "Different, I guess." He finally decides. "Sherlock had taken a liking to you it seemed. And you to him."

This earns an empty chuckle from John; who is recalling the conversation that led him to follow Sherlock to the crime scene.  _"Wanna see some more?" "Oh god, yes."_

"I knew there was something different, something special, about you. You were so amazed by him. Made me remember just how extraordinary he was. Kind of forget it dealing with him being such a prat sometimes; you know?" he looks to John for assurance on this; but John refuses to grant it.

"I could never forget how extraordinary he was." It holds no anger; nor rebuke though. Just a statement; a fact.

Greg lets out a heavy sigh before he continues. "Well I did. Shouldn't have. Ever. But I did." He trails off into silence and Molly sees it creeping onto his face; that woeful shadow.

Quickly she intervenes. "Tell me more about John's first day." and Greg takes the distraction, gratefully. "Yeah. Well as I was saying, I knew he was different. Even Sherlock treated him differently. Told me to stop thinking but let John talk, compliment him. Let him examine the body. Then we went to his flat to retrieve some evidence."

John snorts at this; recalling the "drugs bust" ploy Greg used against Sherlock. Greg looks a bit guilty; knowing what John is thinking, but continues on. "It was so weird. It was like he was looking to you for approval or something."

John raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "Where did you get that idea?"

Greg shrugs. "I don't know. Just they way he was explaining everything to you. The way he was about that stillborn girl."

John recalls the moment; searching it for the sort of approval Greg was referring to.  _Not good?" "Bit not good."_ He was right. It was as though he was looking to John in some way. Maybe not for approval; but certainly for understanding.

"I knew right then you would be good for him. Wasn't sure how or even why. Just knew you would be." Greg continues, unaware of John's wandering mind.

"He was good for me." is John's soft response. Molly and Greg both smile; in a sort of bittersweet way.

"I guess he must have been. For you to put up with him like you did." Greg says; trying for a lighter mood.

Some nights they banter about Sherlock; complain about all his eccentricities because in a weird way it helps. But John clearly isn't up for that tonight.

"It had nothing to do with 'putting up' with him. I loved him." he furrows his brow in thought. "Love, loved, love, loved." he lets the words chase circles in the air as he tries to determine the most fitting version of it.

Past. Present. Past. Present.

"Love." he says finally; having made his decision. The announcement is met with no surprise.

"We know." Molly says.

"You do?" John says. There isn't much surprise in the question; more curiosity as to how they could tell.

"Sure. It was hard to miss." Greg supplies.

"It was?" he questions.

"Yeah. When he was alive everyone suspected something. You two were so close; always seemed in sync. And how you followed him everywhere. Then he died and it became so clear. We see how it's broken you."

Molly sucks in a breath as Greg continues. They've never mentioned John's facade or the fact that they can see through it. He's treading on dangerous territory. John's face is unreadable as he listens. "We've been worried for you. Thought you might..." and he trails off.

Even through his slightly drunken haze he knows he's going too far. John scans his face for a moment; deciphering the rest of his sentence. "I won't follow him." he murmurs finally. "I'm not suicidal."

Greg looks sheepish, yet relieved. "Neither was he." The words slip from her mouth before Molly even realizes her mistake. Clearly she's had more than she should. "I mean, no one thought he was. So you've got to understand why we're worried about you." She quickly covers.

They both just nod in understanding; accepting her lie. She pushed away the rest of her drink resolutely. No more mistakes. She couldn't let something slip. The table had gone silent. Greg was toying with his empty glass; clearly wanting more, but restraining himself.

John was aimlessly tracing patterns in the dark wood of their table; lost in thought. Moments later he broke the silence. "Do you think he knew?"

Pulled from their individual musings; they direct confused gazes at him. "Who knew what?" Greg asks.

"Sherlock. That I loved him." John clarifies; scanning their faces. They both shrink from his question and his searching gaze.

Greg shrinks because he doesn't know the answer but wishes he did so that he might offer it as a form of comfort.

Molly shrinks because she knows the answer but can not reveal it; though she wants nothing more than to reassure him.

Greg simply shrugs his shoulders. Molly answers "Maybe. Probably." It's the best she can offer.

John nods; unsatisfied but complacent. "I hope he did." he murmurs more to himself than anyone else. "No - I hope he does." he corrects himself. "Wherever he is."

And Molly feels a sense of panic rising. What prompted such a re-phrasing? She opens her mouth to inquire over it, but Greg beats her to it.

"What like Heaven or something?" he inquires/

"I don't know. I'm not religious, but he's got to be out there somewhere, somehow. Someone that amazing can't just disappear from the world. I don't know about Heaven or ghosts or anything but there has to be something left of him." John mumbles and she lets out a sigh of relief.

"It's certainly a nice thought." Greg murmurs in agreement.

Silence resumes because no one is really sure how to continue the conversation. But sometimes silence is the best thing. They just take a few moments to breath in each other's presences. The support; the friendship is almost palpable around them. And it's the only thing keeping them together.

Finally John breaks the silence again, saying "I guess I need to get back to the flat." he never says _"home"_ Molly notes. Not anymore. "Got an early shift at the clinic."

Work has become his obsession. He's always at the clinic it seems; taking all the extra time he can get. Its void of memories related to Sherlock and offers a convenient hiding place for him. It's not good for him to work so much; but it's a coping mechanism.

They both say "Good night" as he stands and leaves his share on the table.

Molly looks at the table as he walks away; she can't stand to see him limping slowly out of the pub.

Greg offers to take her home but she declines. Although it would be nice, she can't take the risk. Sherlock is prone to showing up at her flat unannounced. So she just bids him good night with a hug before hailing a cab.

On her ride home she receives a text. "At your flat."

It comes from an untraceable number and there is no signature, but she knows who it's from. Unusual though. He's never texted before. Just shows up. But the last time he did was late at night and he nearly gave her a heart attack. And she nearly clubbed him with a fry-pan. So that must have had some effect.

She texts back "Be there soon." She slips it back into her purse and allows her mind to wander.

She's glad that she has something pleasant to report to him. The conversation from the pub will be good for him. Might even make him smile again. At least she hopes so. His lips haven't quirked upward in far too long.

When he's just dismantled another piece of Moriarty's web he start instantly on the next allowing no sense of celebration or achievement. Just continues on with a look of deep concentration strangely akin to desperation.

When she reported that London is in the midst of a graffiti spree with "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" plastering the city she thought that would at least earn a grin from him. But it didn't. He barely reacted. Just nodded as though filing it away. Surely this will break through the shadows and pull a smile onto his face.

But it doesn't.

She's fixing tea when she brings it up.

His back is to her; staring out the window. "I was just out with Greg and John." she starts. "I know. You go to the pub with them every Saturday." She doesn't bother to ask how he knows that. "The conversation was rather interesting. Started off about the first crime you and John solved."

Sherlock stiffens at the mention of John's name. Molly takes no notice of this as she approaches him with two mugs of tea in hand.

"Mainly Greg talking about his first impression of John and the two of you together." she says, handing him a mug.

He takes it, murmuring "Thank you." But he doesn't drink. Just holds the mug; staring out her window. She waits for a moment to see if he will say anything else.

When he doesn't she takes the initiative and says "John admitted it you know."

She does her best to act nonchalant about it; trying to conceal the near giddiness she feels. She loves bringing good news; especially when it's something this wonderful.

Of course Sherlock already knows that John loves him. But it's different to hear that he has said it aloud. And she waits anxiously for the thrilled reaction she is sure will come. That broad, contagious grin will surely claim his face. Perhaps a triumphant glimmer in his eye as he proclaims happily "I knew it."

But he doesn't respond. "Sherlock?" she murmurs curious at his silence.

And when he finally turns to face her she nearly drops her mug. There are tears in his eyes. Glittering coldly as he stares back at her with nothing but desolation. She's never seen him like this; so pained. "Oh Sherlock."

Her voice comes out in a sympathetic whisper. "I – What? Why're you upset?" she doesn't understand why he's crying. Isn't this good news? Has he misunderstood? She tries to explain herself. "He said that he lov -"

"Stop." the word is snapped out sharply; cutting her sentence midstream.

She's completely lost. Doesn't he want to hear, to know that John loves him? That he has openly admitted it? Why won't he let her finish. She tries again; desperate to share this hope with him. To see him smile.

"But he said he -" she starts

"No." he insists severely. "Don't -" he falters. "Don't tell me about him. Watch him. Care for him like you've been doing. But I don't want to hear about it. About him." What in the world? This doesn't make any sense. Doesn't he miss John? Shouldn't he cling to this connection like a lifeline?

She tries just once more "But Sherlock -"

"Don't" he insists stopping her. His voice is just a whisper. Raw and hollow; etched with anguish. His eyes show the internal struggle and Molly thinks her heart just might break when a tear slips from his eye; despite his efforts to maintain control.

"Don't tempt me." he finally murmurs quietly and suddenly she understands.

"Okay." she says with a nod and a sigh. "I'll just go fix up the guest room for you."

"Thank you." comes his quiet response before he returns his gaze to the window.

She's fighting tears of her own as she goes down the hall.

A smile. That's all she wants to see. But its not going to happen. She knows that now. Not until this is all over and he is free to see John.

John is the only one who will be able to make him smile again. Which is only fair considering Sherlock is the only one who will ever make John smile again.


	2. An Attempt At Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does his best to offer comfort to John from afar via Molly.

When Molly emerges the next morning she is unsurprised to find Sherlock in the chair where he sat the night before, still staring out the window, deep in thought.

She's not sure why she even bothered making up the guest bed as he almost never actually sleeps when he comes 'round. But it had given her a convenient exit from the room, which is what was needed.

She had learned how much silence mattered to Sherlock and did her best to move quietly across the sitting room and into the kitchen. She set the kettle on to boil for tea. The glasses clinked as she extracted a mug from the cabinet, causing Sherlock to stir.

He rose slowly, stiffly from his perch and stretched, murmuring "Morning."

He approached her, looking weary and taking the cup of tea she'd just fixed for herself from the counter.

"Morning." she returns the greeting with an undertone of annoyance. There are some elements of Sherlock that haven't changed and although they are bothersome she is relieved as well.

He doesn't notice her tone however, and wanders over to another area of the counter, leaning against it as he sips at his tea. She fixes herself another cup, not bothering to hold onto her irritation at him.

The silence is thick, but the quiet has never bothered her. She works in a morgue after all. She absent-mindedly fiddles with her tea bag as it steeps, swirling it back and forth in the cup as her mind rumbles alive for the day.

Sherlock still seems entrapped in his thoughts and his tired eyes are directed with intense concentration at a particular spot on her kitchen wall.

"Can you give this to him?" Sherlock inquires suddenly, breaking the silence and surprising Molly.

As he is speaking he is reaching into his pocket and withdraws his phone. Not the cheap one he's been carrying for the past few weeks, he switches phones almost monthly now.

It's the one had had before he "jumped." The one he spoke his last words to John on.

Molly didn't even realize he'd kept it. "To who?" she inquires, and then realizes it's a foolish question.

"John of course" Sherlock responds, mirroring her thoughts.

"You want me to give him your phone?" again it's a foolish question with an obvious answer, but it's her tone of incredulous confusion that warrants a response.

"Yes." he extends his hand towards her, the phone resting in his palm.

"Please" he adds when she doesn't take it. Molly lets out a sigh and feels tears prickling in her eyes. Not from sorrow though, just from stress and empathetic heart-ache for John and Sherlock.

"It's been seven months Sherlock. This will just stir everything up again." she objects.

"He needs it." Sherlock insists.

For a moment Molly in worried that she has failed him and that because of her conversation last night he will break his cover.

"You're not going to try and talk with him are you?" she asks, growing concerned.

As much as she wants this all over with, she's heard enough from Sherlock to know that Moriarty's web is vast and dangerous and Sherlock can't stop until they are all gone, otherwise he risks exposing everyone to danger again.

Sherlock looks almost offended at her insinuation. "No. I'm not risking my cover for sentiment. We might...miss each other" he concedes, looking as though the admittance is painful. "But what I'm doing is far too important to allow a frivolity such as caring to stand in the way."

Molly can't explain it, but the way he speaks with disdain about emotions always riles her. She even understands what he means by it and can clearly see that being so emotionally blasé it a constant battle for him, but it still bothers her.

"So what's the point then? After seven months Sherlock. How do I explain that to him? she demands, allowing her anger to take charge of her voice.

Sherlock lets out a huff at her objections. Clearly he wasn't expecting any questions from her, much less a fight. "Just tell him it got mixed up at the morgue or something." he snaps, hoping that will silence her.

But Molly has more steel to her than most people realize and continues.

"And why am I doing this to him? It will be like rubbing salt on a wound, not to mention the fact I'll be lying to him even more." she inquires, incensed.

"I told you, he needs it." Sherlock retorts, impatient with her stubbornness.

"What good will your bloody phone do him?" she snaps.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in surprise at her outburst and surveys her face, trying to decipher how to handle this new side of Molly. He realizes he will have to explain himself. He loathes admitting to the softer, more human side of his nature, but he trusts Molly enough to bare himself just a bit to her.

"Sentiment." he offers as an explanation. Which isn't really one at all and Molly points out this fact. "How is it sentiment?" she questions.

"John will understand." he insists.

Molly gives him a dubious look that tell him she will have to understand a bit more before she agrees.

"Phones have always had a special significance in our cases and dealings. He will understand the gesture." and he falls silent, directing his gaze to the floor, telling Molly that is as much of an explanation as she is getting.

"Okay. So you're trying to what? Apologize or something?" He closes his eyes against the question and the emotions it wakes in him.

He is silent for a moment, thought whether it's because he's trying to re-establish mental control or is simply thinking Molly is unsure.

When he finally speaks his voice is soft "I don't know." comes his whispered admittance. "I suppose its an apology in some respects. But ultimately it's a statement of his importance to me." and he raises his eyes to meet her almost defiantly as though he expects some disbelief or mockery for admitting to his deep affection for John.

She meets the harsh gaze with a gentle, sorrowful one of her own.

"Sherlock it's not -" she pauses in her objection, wondering how she can explain this to him. He is trying, really trying, to be sentimental and human for John's sake. He is trying in small subtle ways to open and defrost for John, but he doesn't know what he's doing and doesn't understand how this all works.

"It won't work if I just give it to him." she finally objects, unsure of what else to say.

"Why not?" Sherlock murmurs, utterly confused by this set of unspoken rules for which he has no guide-book.

"Because it won't mean anything. It will be just like all your other stuff he ended up with. If you want it to be a gesture it has to come from you." she tries to explain, hoping it will make sense to him.

"Well I can't very well just stroll into the flat and say 'Here John have this phone so that you know I love you and I'm not just some selfish suicidal bastard!' now can I?" he demands, his calm breaking, exploding into a rage created by pent up sorrow and pain.

Molly flinches at his outburst, not for her sake, because she knows it's not directed at her.

She flinches at the almost blatant self-hatred in Sherlock's statement and the tormented tone in which he admits to loving John.

Anger has never been an emotion she dealt well with, but Sherlock needs someone and she's not going to let his ire discourage her. If he wants to do this for John than he needs to do it right.

"You're right. You can't. But you can write him a note or something that tells him you are purposely leaving the phone for him." she counters.

The cool logical solution soothes his fiery temper and he nods, gratefully at her words.

There is sudden transition in his countenance and his face resumes its crisp calculating mask and his voice returns to its balanced timbre as he straightens from the counter, saying "Quite right. A note is certainly the way to do it."

He clicks the phone on and the start-up tone rings through the otherwise quiet flat. Molly watches as his fingers fly across the keys, clicking out words which Sherlock hopes will speak far deeper than the assortment of letters that they seem to be.

When he's finished he holds it out for Molly to read. She's surprised at his willingness to share this with her and hesitates for a moment.

"Tell me if this will do." he prompts, exasperated by her slow response.

She takes it from his hands and reads

_John,_

_I'm sorry. You will understand later. Until then, keep this. I'm sure you understand its significance. I'm trying for sentiment here and I hope that may act as balm upon your wounds that I've caused._

_SH_

It's not really what she would consider affectionate or touching, but she knows that is not how Sherlock works. It isn't really how John works either though, so it works.

She is sure that this seemingly dispassionate note will mean the world to him, because he will see something between the lines that she can barely decipher, but knows of its existence.

She nods in approval and returns the phone to Sherlock. He sets the note as the banner across his screen then returns it to her. "Today if possible." he says as she takes it.

She nods "Are you going to be here when I get home?" she inquires, glancing at the clock and realizing she needs to be getting ready.

"Yes. But I'll be gone in the morning." he calls after her as she descends the hall, back to her room.

"Okay." she calls before closing her door.

Sherlock drums his fingers against the counter for a few moments as his disobedient thoughts stray towards John.

"Focus!" he scolds himself aloud and redirects his train on thought towards the most recently discovered strand on Moriarty's web.


	3. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is given the phone by Molly and it's not quite the gesture Sherlock hoped it would be.

"You wanted to see me about something?" the sound of John's voice breaks through the silence of the otherwise quiet office. His subdued presence does little to add colour to the stale whiteness of the room. Molly has tried to liven up her space with little cat-themed knick-knacks; but their effect is lost amongst the stagnant alabaster walls. The melancholic timbre that now imbues John's voice simply adds a bit of gray to the scale.

It's lunchtime and the morgue is mostly empty save Molly and the corpses she tends to. She's taking a few moments to catch up on paperwork that she's allowed to lag behind the past few days. It is the one thing she truly dislikes about her job. She can't really explain it, but she supposes it has something to do with the fact that on paper people become nothing but a statistic.

That gray-haired woman she tended to earlier is no longer Rachel Alkans, grandmother of four and hobby painter. She is seventy two year old female, 5'4 weighing 160, died of natural causes. That bothers her immensely and she always avoids it for as long as she can, without feeling irresponsible.

Upon hearing John's voice she glances up at him and tries for a friendly smile of greeting but her face won't quite obey. The muscles sit stiffly in protest and in the end it looks more like a suppressed grimace. But then considering what she is about to give him perhaps a smile isn't the most appropriate greeting. "Hey." is what she settles for instead.

"What's up?" he prompts, obviously wondering why she wants to see him when they just had drinks last night. His tone comes across as almost curt to his dismay, but it's because he is simply exhausted.

He hadn't slept well at all the night before, ravaged by a nightmare.

_Sherlock stood upon the ledge, reaching out for him. "Stay there John, otherwise you'll interfere with the results. You see I am conducting a new experiment. Its focus is on understanding how someone ordinary copes with the loss of a dear friend. Too bad I won't be around to record the results." John shouts back into the phone, begging him to stay "No Sherlock! Don't! Not for some bloody experiment!" "But I am my Work John. If I don't have my Work what do I have to live for?" "You've got so much to live for. You've got me to live for!" and Sherlock in his classically blasé ignorance responds "Why would I need to live for you? Goodbye John." And then he tosses the phone aside and falls forward, landing with an inhumanly loud thud upon the pavement._

He'd awoken with a cry of "Sherlock!" upon his lips and a head full of gruesome images spinning incessantly within his mind of Sherlock, bloodied upon the pavement. Needless to say he never got back to sleep.

Then he was up early for his shift at the clinic, which was swamped. There was an awful stomach bug going around and it seemed that every senior citizen had to develop achy joints at the exact same time. So him morning was spent with vomiting children, harried mothers and tiresome, argumentative elders who wanted a magic pill for all their ills. He'd left after his eight hour shift, at 1:15, and was headed to the flat for a shower and cup of tea when Molly texted him. So instead he dropped into a cafe, grabbed coffee and a sandwich before heading over.

"Oh - um, well we found something of yours" she says, fiddling nervously with the hem of her shirt.

"Mine?" he questions, becoming more confused and backtracking in memory, wondering if he might've left something at the pub last night. Jacket? No. He's wearing it now. Wallet? Nope. He just bought lunch. Cane? No, certainly not. If only.

Molly clarifies for him though by rephrasing "Well I mean - it's yours  _now_."

A slight tightening of his mouth indicates his understanding. "Something of his?" it's not really a question, more of a hopeful statement. Hopeful that he is wrong and that he isn't going to have to contend with a fresh dose of despair today. But he knows that it's a fool's hope and this is confirmed when Molly says "Yeah - um -probably best if you sit down."

She stands herself and gestures to the empty chair tucked behind the desk for him. It is a bit silly she supposes, wanting him to sit and most who know John would protest that he can take anything with a firm, straight stance.

But she'd been there the first time he'd gone back to the flat after Sherlock jumped.

It was seven days after his death when John decided it was time to face the memories stored away amongst the walls and clutter. He'd wanted to go in on his own but Molly and Mrs. Hudson insisted on being with him. That turned out to be a wise decision choice.

He'd done surprisingly well at first, not even limping as he ascended the steps with practiced ease. They got to the landing and opened the door, John stepping inside first. He surveyed the room for a moment, taking everything in. He breathed deeply for a few moments trying to calm himself at the lingering presence of Sherlock in the air. There was a definitive sag in his shoulders and an essence of melancholy about him, but she actually thought he might manage returning to the flat. She hopped so, thinking that if the pain of the memories had softened enough they might begin to heal him, making this a sort of refuge.

Then his eyes landed beside Sherlock's chair. There was a partially drunk cup of tea, cold and souring. Beside it sat a plate and upon the plate was a buttered piece of toast with a single definitive bite-mark torn from one corner. John's mind recalled the events leading to it against his will.

" _Sherlock you need to eat." he'd scolded, setting the plate beside his chair._

_Sherlock hadn't stirred, didn't even acknowledge him. "Sherlock." He'd prompted, attempting to catch his attention, as he stared pointedly at the floor, fingers steepled in concentration._

" _Yes?" he'd finally demanded, looking up with a sharp glare, irritated at the interruption._

" _You need to eat. You've hardly had anything the past few days and you're not sleeping either. Your body needs energy." John scolded lightly, gesturing to the plate for emphasis._

_Sherlock let out a huff and gestured to the cup of tea that John made him earlier._

" _I've been drinking at least." He argued as though tea was somehow a replacement for food._

" _Yes I know." John replied with an edge of exasperation in his voice. " But despite the fact you're British you can't actually live on tea. Eat!" he'd barked out the last word as a command and Sherlock threw him a petulant glare over the tone._

_However he lifted the toast from him plate and took one large bite, made a display of chewing and swallowing before tossing it back onto the plate." Satisfied?" he inquired cheekily._

" _Not remotely." John retorted, but let the matter drop. "I swear Sherlock; you're going to be the death of me one day." He'd muttered under his breath in exasperation at his friend's antics._

" _I certainly hope not" was Sherlock's soft reply._

John's knees gave out and he collapsed into her with a strangled groan, protesting "God, no." It had taken three weeks and Mrs. Hudson cleaning and packing before he was able to move back in. So she has reason to be concerned.

But John remains standing and just waits, eyes defiant against her implication of weakness. Her eyes offer an apology at the unintentional insult and for what she's about to do. She reaches into her coat pocket and extracts the mobile from it. John surveys it with curiosity and confusion for a moment and then understanding dawns in his eyes.

Molly watches the emotions flash subtly across his face, anxiously waiting for his reaction. The slight sagging of his face showing sadness and weariness at yet another blow. The subtle pursing of the lips as he reels his emotions back under control and the setting of his jaw against the pain, almost in denial of it all.

"And what is that?" he demands, though he knows the answer. But he has to ask and the question gives voice to his indignation at such an occurrence. Molly is fighting tears and they are by no means part of the act. "It was his. We just found it - got mixed up with some other stuff and..." she trails off unsure of what else to say. Her lame explanation is borrowed almost word for word from Sherlock and knowing that does nothing to cease the flow from her eyes.

John's eyes linger upon the phone in her hand for a moment as if he's struggling with an internal debate. Finally he speaks, his voice strangely flat. "Right. Well you can donate it or something. Not like I've got any use for it." is his cold declaration.

Avoidance is an effective tactic when battling pain and it's one he's employing now. Some might argue that it's a coward's way out but bravery doesn't concern him anymore. He's got enough bullshit he's dealing with. So he simply he turns to walk away.

"John!" she protests, surprised at his reaction. "I - I can't. It's for you." she explains.

"What?" he rounds on her, confusion dispelling his reservations in accepting the device.

"I - I mean - um " Molly hesitates for a moment trying to sort out the lies in her head.

"I probably shouldn't have but when they found it mixed in with the other stuff they weren't sure whose it was. I thought it might be...well, his and I thought the only way to know for sure was to turn it on, so I did and - I - well there was something written on it - it's for you." she insists extending her hand to him. "Just look at it." she pleads when he hesitates.

With a heavy sigh he takes it from her hands. His mind is chucking up red flags in warning, telling him that he should just hand the phone back and go on his way. This isn't good for him, stirring up all the pain and grief that settled in his heart like sediment on the bottom of a pond. This will just muddy the water. But he ignores the warnings and turns it on.

Molly chews the edge of her lip anxiously as the start-up tone rings through the office. She has no idea what this note will do to him after seeing just how he reacted to the sight of the phone and how it drove him further into the bomb-shelter he's built around himself, letting no one in and very little out. She is beginning to regret ever agreeing to this. Sherlock doesn't understand emotions and even though he thinks this will do more healing than harming she can't help but wonder if it will in fact be the reverse.

Her eyes are focused entirely upon his face as the white letters across the black screen aim and fire their darts into him.

_John,_

_I'm sorry. You will understand later. Until then, keep this. I'm sure you understand its significance. I'm trying for sentiment here and I hope that may act as balm upon your wounds that I've caused._

_SH_

He just nods and clicks it shut, more forcefully than necessary. "Shit." he mutters, clamping his eyes shut for a moment, as if he's willing the entire thing to be a dream. "That bastard." he swears under his breath on the shock and pain has had time to give way to anger.

The seemingly harmless words reached like a claw into his mind, raking forward memories of their past together and every time a phone was of some significance.

He found himself recalling their very first night together, when Sherlock explained how he deduced Harry's problems by his mobile. And that pink phone led to the death of the murderous cabbie. Then there was Moriarty of course and The Woman.

His thoughts snagged upon that and his mind stalled for a moments recalling when Sherlock requested her phone. He thought Sherlock wanted it to remember her by.

The words from their first night floated in his mind's eye  _"He left her. If she left him, he'd have kept the phone, people do. Sentiment."_

Sentiment was what Sherlock said he was trying to convey. That's synonymous with affection. Affection that once nestled in John's heart, perking at the mere mention of Sherlock's name. Affection that he was sure Sherlock could hardly understand, let alone possess for him. And now here he was, from beyond the grave reaching out to John and confirming that he did have a heart and apparently John was the only one to have ever touched it.

"Bastard." John swore quietly again, furious at Sherlock and the shadowy veil of death that separated them before they had a chance for the truth to prevail in their relationship.

"John" Molly murmurs consolingly, trying to calm his anger. She reaches a hand to rest on his arm. He flinches at her touch as though he's about to pull away. But he allows it to rest their instead, focusing on breathing and trying to calm himself. As his breath softens and his hard features slacken she slides it down and off.

He's in control of his anger now, but that has simply opened up room for more emotions to flood in and he turns his head in the opposite direction as he feels an unwelcome wetness in his eyes. It doesn't take him long to get himself back under control and when he is sure his face will betray nothing he turns to face her again.

"How did you even end up with it here?" he asks finally, trying to change the subject. His voice has resumed its flat countenance. She allows herself to be diverted onto this new train of thought, noting he's now clutching the mobile in his hand.

"I - What do you mean? It was brought in with his..." she can't bring herself to say 'body' but she doesn't need to.

"No I saw - saw him throw it down right before..." John trails of unable to complete the sentence.

This isn't something Molly was prepared for and she fumbles for a few moments

"Oh - I - probably just um - found it when they brought in Moriarty's body or something." she offers. It's a weak explanation she knows, but John doesn't say anything else.

The moments before Sherlock's fall are echoing within his mind. The last words they said to each other. And it suddenly hits him that Sherlock had his last conversation on this phone and that conversation was with him. The last seconds of their joined lives lingered within that phone.

The thought strikes him like a harpoon and his already fragile calm begins to crack again. He knows that he's headed for a storm and he doesn't want anyone to see that. So he makes a hasty retreat. "Right, well I'm exhausted. I'm gonna head back to the flat." Molly is surprised at his sudden shift, and tries for a proper goodbye, saying "Oh, okay. Well I'll see you Saturday right?" but her words are lost in the sterile hospital air as he darts from her office and down the hall as quickly as his troublesome leg with allow.


	4. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to tell his therapist about recent developments. It doesn't go as planned.

"Ah, John. I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten our appointment."

Dr. Landon greets as he enters her spacious sunny office. Honestly it's almost offensive how airy and bright the pale Caribbean blue walls are, in contrast to his mood. He feels like leaden hurricane clouds blowing into a pleasant sandy resort island. He mumbles an excuse about traffic along with an apology that she disregards with a wave of her hand. He settles into a plush armchair set across from hers and waits for the session to begin.

He's been seeing her for three months now. His previous therapist simply wasn't working for him as she kept dragging his past trauma into the conversations, trying to compare the war to losing Sherlock and telling him that a majority of his grief and anger was in fact unresolved issues from the war. She told him that he's not really that upset about Sherlock but is projecting emotions on the event that don't belong there, because he refused to deal with them earlier. That conversation ended with him storming from her office, leaving a string of swears words in his wake.

He hadn't intended to go back to therapy after that, after all it wasn't doing any good.

But Harry was beside herself when she found out and insisted he find someone new.

He hated to see her so distressed, so eventually he gave in and started with Dr. Emily Landon.

She's good. Intelligent and down to earth, with a steely edge that helps her to deal with his occasional angry outbursts and reluctance to open up. I mean there's nothing special about her, no miracle revelations have come from their conversations, but it makes him feel as though he's trying to move forward.

"So how've you been?" she starts the hour off with her typical question and he gives her his standard answer.

"I'm fine. Working a lot. Still going to the pub with Molly and Greg, that helps." he reels it off with an almost rehearsed air to his tone.

It's what he tells everybody. " _I'm fine." "Just tired" "I'm moving on"._

It's all lies of course and they both know it. She levels him with a piercing hazel gazes and argues "If you're so  _'fine'_  then why did you request an appointment today instead of waiting for your bi-monthly one next Thursday?"

A sort of wry humour flashes across his mind at her tenacity. It's one of the reasons he keeps going back to her. She doesn't baby him like everyone else and it's good to have someone who will call him on his bullshit on occasion. It makes things more difficult of course, because he can't pretend he's okay in her presence, but at times it's certainly a relief. She never knew "John the Soldier" and she isn't going to judge him if he shows weakness. He doesn't feel as though he has to protect her from the fact that he's falling apart like all his other friends and colleagues.

He takes a breath as he prepares to answer her question. It won't be an easy session, because this will take some explaining, which will force him to delve into his memories with Sherlock to explain the significance of the event. "I got something of his the other day. His mobile phone.".

There is a flicker of surprise that crosses her face, but it's covered quickly. No doubt she's wondering why a seemingly minor event has caused so much discord within him.

Knowing that she's waiting for further explanation, he continues "It was lost at the morgue for a bit. He left it to me. Wrote me a note and everything.".

The beginnings of understanding dawn slowly in her eyes and a flash of pity crosses her professional countenance, because this poor man just doesn't get any breaks.

"What did it say?" she inquires, trying to determine how serious this is.

If it's just stirred up painful memories she can manage it, but she senses there is something more to the story. He doesn't answer, but instead reaches for his pocket.

He partially extends his arm as though he's going to give it to her to read, then seems to suddenly change his mind.

He can't just hand it over, can't let her see, word for word what Sherlock wrote. It's just too intimate for him to reveal.

So instead he flips it open and paraphrases "Basically that he's sorry and that he hopes one day I will understand." he quickly snaps it shut and returns it to his pocket, regretting that he even brought this up.

He's not ready to share this, not ready to explain the relationship dynamic between himself and Sherlock. He fumbles; trying to close the lid on the Pandora's Box he opened by saying "I guess it just upset me, because it's a note. Made me think of everything that happened that day and it's like a piece of him has suddenly appeared again, when he was just starting to fade."

It's a convincing lie to the untrained ear, but Dr. Landon knows better. "John, please don't do this." she says, fixing him with an imploring gaze.

"Don't do what?" he inquires with an unconvincing puzzled expression.

Dr. Landon lets out a soft sigh, wondering what has driven him back into his shell, when they'd actually been making progress. He hadn't been playing these games recently, and was opening more to her and being honest about his struggles, but now it's almost as though they've lost all the ground they gained.

"Don't lie to me. I know that there is more to this than you're letting on and I can't help you unless you give me the full story."

He purses his lips, just slightly, as though he's subtly rebelling against speaking.

"John I can't make you talk about something you don't want to. I don't have superpowers, though they'd come in handy with most of my patients. But you wanted this session. You wanted to talk about it, you need to talk about it. I don't know why you've suddenly changed your mind and why you're clamming up on me again. But whatever it is, you need to get over it and tell me the truth." she admonished, letting her words hang in the air and hoping that they get through to him.

He deliberates his options and his emotions are bombarding against the obstinate shield his mind and pride created. Finally, with a weary sigh he relents, and hands over the phone.

She takes it, with a small encouraging smile and flips it open. She scans the note, trying to keep confusion from furrowing her brow. This isn't what she expected. After reading it for a third time, trying to ensure she didn't miss anything, she hands it back to him.

"I'm afraid the note doesn't clear this up for me much. You left out the part about his sentiment, so I am assuming it's the main problem, but what I don't understand is why."

John lets out a snort at her comment, because it's seems almost impossible for someone not to realize the gravity of the situation. Sherlock showing sentiment is really, really big news in his world, but for everyone else on the outside, it's hardly noteworthy.

"You read through my blog right?"

"Yes." She answers, wondering why he's re-tracking the conversation.

"And I've mentioned a few times how...remote he could be with people."

She nods in agreement, as she begins to understand where this is headed

"So for him to admit any sort of affection means a lot." she tries to clarify.

"Yeah." he answers, his tone purposely neutral. "So this is just a lot to process then. There's not anything else?" she prompts, because she strongly suspects that there is more to their story, she has for a while now, but she needs him to admit it to her.

He weighs his options, considers an admittance to his feelings for Sherlock but he can't bring himself to do so. Somehow admitting it to Molly and Greg is different because it's something they already suspected. It didn't matter if he admitted to it or not because either way it's what they would've believed. And even though it's out in the open with them it hasn't changed anything. They are content to let the matter drop, but Dr. Landon won't. He knows that she will insist on talking about it and examining different angles and ask him a hundred "What if?" questions. He just can't handle that.

"No. That's it. Just stirred up a lot of stuff and it hurts a bit, seeing this softer side of him and not being able to..." he trails off there, unsure of how to continue.

"To reciprocate" Dr. Landon offers when his sentence remains incomplete.

He remains stonily silent, unwilling to reveal anything further to her, but she already has what she needs.

One of the things that makes her a good therapist is that she can read the unspoken words that hang about people, in their tones and expressions. She flips through the file in her lap and retrieves a business card, then hands it over to him.

"There is a group therapy facilitated by a friend of mine, Dr. Brickston, which meets every other Tuesday around 4:00. I think you should check it out. It's for people who are dealing with the same sort of trauma that you're battling."

He takes it from her, sliding it into his pocket. "Really? There is a support group for people whose best friend committed suicide and made them watch? Is it a trend amongst geniuses or something?" he quips with a venomous edge to his attempt at humour.

She ignores his macabre and facetious barb and continues "You really need to look into it. When you're grieving one of the best things you can do is to have people who are going through the same thing to talk about it with. They understand when even the most empathetic of therapist doesn't."

His lips part to argue that point, because no one can possibly understand what he had with Sherlock and what he lost when he jumped. But he swiftly reseals them, because that argument might lead to revelations he's trying to avoid. So instead he just nods and says "I'll call and get the details. I'll go once at least."

It's a sort of promise and it is one he intends to keep. He doesn't have much faith that it will do any good, but he has a suspicion that Dr. Landon will follow up on it with Dr. Brickston and will know if he goes. Her face relaxes into a smile at his agreement and she checks her wristwatch. "Fifteen minutes left, if there's anything else you want to talk about." she offers.

They run over on their sessions sometimes, if John is late or being particularly distant and she has to extract information from him syllable by syllable. But they can't do that today as she has a 2:15 and it's rapidly approaching 1:45. He just shakes his head and stands to leave. "No. That's it. I'll see you next week." He says, with a half wave, and grabs his cane from it's resting place beside his chair.

"Have a good afternoon John." she calls in return to his retreating back.

"And please don't be too angry when you realize where I'm sending you." she murmurs under her breath when he's gone.


	5. Group Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally goes to the group therapy he was advised to attend. The trouble is, it's not really what he was expecting.

He didn't call that afternoon when he returned from his session. Yes, he'd promised Dr. Landon would, but that didn't mean he wanted to. He didn't call the next day, using the excuse within his mind that he wouldn't have time since he had to work late.

He didn't call the next three days because some idiot barreled into him when he was talking to Harry on his way home from work and he dropped his phone, leaving it to clatter on the sideway.

The screen cracked and it wouldn't turn on. He couldn't afford another phone and wasn't sure what he was going to do, so for the time being he simply left it at the flat, on the table. Two days later he returns home from work to find it repaired, even the inscription is the same. He knows instinctively who is responsible, but he can't find it within himself to be grateful. Not after what he did. So instead he just slips it into his pocket, nodding in acknowledgment, thinking perhaps Mycroft has bugged the flat.

Finally, the Saturday after his session he stops procrastinating and does as he promised.

He fixes himself a cup of tea, letting it steep completely and adding milk slowly, before reluctantly making his way over to the large ragged chair that had been inadvertently claimed by him in the early days of his residence at Baker Street.

He's not even sure where it came from, if it was a bit of left-over furnishing from a previous tenant or if Sherlock happened to have it in his ragtag collection of stuff. He allows his mind to wander for a moment, as he studies the chair opposite him, Sherlock's.

So much like him, crisp, modern, meant more for aesthetic appeal and practicality than comfort. And his own chair, soft, worn, sturdy and inviting. Opposites entirely. But somehow they blended in a bizarre, bohemian way. Just like the two of them.

 _Shit._  John cuts off his train of thought harshly and in a moment of sudden strength and defiance he dials the number on the paper, noting that his hand shakes slightly as he does so.

He listens as it rings once -  _breath deep_ \- twice -  _exhale slowly-_  three times  _-sharp intake-_  as it clicks and warm professional voice answers on the other end "Hello, Dr. Brickston speaking."

 _Pause_ -  _Regroup-_  Answer "Hi, My name is John Watson," he manages in an even tone.

" I- um-"

"Ah yes, Mr. Watson. Dr. Landon contacted me a few days ago about you." He interrupts.

John swallows and sinks almost guiltily into his seat, answering in what he hopes is a casual tone "Oh, yeah. I meant to call earlier, but things just kept getting in the way."

"Yes, I hear you work at a local clinic as a GP. I'm sure you're constantly running." He answers and John isn't sure if he's imagining the double meaning in his voice or not.

"Right. Yeah, well, um, I was just wondering if you've got spot for me. In your next meeting?" he says, after an awkward pause.

"Of course." He answers warmly. "We meet at my office. Have you got something to write on?" he inquires, offering the address.

"Oh, Dr. Landon gave me your card. I've got the info I need. Just wanted to let you know I'd be there. Reserve my seat." He says, with a weak attempt at humor.

Dr. Brickston has the good grace to answer with a bright, though unconvincing laugh and says "Okay. I look forward to seeing you there. Good afternoon, John."

"Yeah. Good afternoon." He answers, and then the line is dead with a click.

He sinks into the chair, holding his phone, staring into nothingness as the sun starts to set. He doesn't stir all evening; his gaze fixed at Sherlock's chair as the light fades, slipping it into shadow. Just like him.  _Fading into darkness._

John clenches his fists at the thought, wondering why he had to choose now of all moments to become deep and metaphorical. Life was hard enough without seeing poetic parallels at every turn.

In a sudden fit of rage he hurls his teacup at the chair "You selfish bastard!" he screams as it shatters against the chair. "I could've helped you! If you'd just told me what was going on! I could've saved you!"

No response. Just a cold, mocking silence that reminds him far too much of its previous occupant.  _There's nothing to be done now, John._ The reasoning voice within his head rings out like Sherlock's familiar baritone.

Then a maniacal edge enters his mind and taunts in a singsong voice that could only be described as Moriarty's  _Too-oo Late!_

Furiously he rouses himself from him own chair; flips the other, dumping shards of ceramic with it and stalks from the room, leaving chaos in his wake. Exhausted from his sudden outburst he actually manages to sleep that night.

*******Tuesday********

John doesn't hesitate when he climbs into the cab and rattles off the address. He's ready for this. Face set like stone, cane at his side, his mind focused on his mission. He feels like he's headed into combat and that sensation is the only thing keeping him from bolting in the opposite direction. Instead he manages a weak facsimile smile when the cabbie bids him a good afternoon and squares his shoulders as he enters the building.

He asks for direction from the portly security guard and is directed down an alabaster hallway. He reads the doors numbers and he goes and soon finds himself in a large, sage painted room with a circle of pillows on the floor. He pauses for a moment, pursing his lips and double-checking the door number. One-Twenty-Four.

Yeah, it's right. But it looks more like a meditation class than a therapy session. In truth he was expecting more of an AA set-up.  _Hello my name is John and I was addicted to a genius._ A strange, almost hysterical laugh threatens to bubble into his throat at the thought and he quickly pushes it down, instead stepping fully into the room to make his presence know.

There are only three others there, but then he is a bit early, it's only 3:50. One of the men, who John assumes to be Dr. Brickston glances up at the sound his feet make on the hardwood floor and he is greeted with a smile.

"You must be John, Watson." He says, standing to greet him with a handshake. He stands slightly taller than John, more broadly built, with salt and pepper hair that is quickly thinning.

"Yes, sir. Nice to meet you." John answers, hoping he sounds convincing.

"Come take a seat wherever you like, the others should be here shortly." Dr. Brickston offers, gesturing to the pillows and moving to sit on his own.

John settles onto a large brown pillow towards the center of the circle, awkwardly adjusting his position to suit his stiff and slightly sore leg. Dr. Brickston seems ready to offer him a chair, but a quick firm glance from John keeps the words from leaving his mouth.

Instead he gestures to a middle-aged, blonde woman and says "This is Ellen Wood." They exchange weak smiles

"And this is Richard-" John inhales,  _sharply- unconsciously_  "Browning" Dr. Brickston finished, gesturing to a heavy-set man balding man who acknowledged John with a brief nod.

Dr. Brickston doesn't attempt to force feed more awkward conversation and leaves them alone with their thoughts while he marks notes on his clipboard and waits for the others to arrive. John flexes his fingers, eyes scanning the room aimlessly, wondering what exactly the purpose of this group was.

Similar trauma. Had these people lost their best friends as well? Where they suicide witnesses? He subtly scans them attempting in vain to try and ascertain an answer to his question. _Sherlock would know._

The thought stops him in his tracks and he winces. It happens fairly often, these thoughts of Sherlock, in such a cavalier manner it's almost as though he's simply away on holiday. _Actually on a case_ , He corrects himself. Sherlock would never go on holiday.

He resolutely refocuses his mind on another train, making a to-do list for the next week. Groceries on Wednesday. Call Harry no later than Friday – Ask about her birthday plans. Find time to clean - Especially the kitchen.

He is yanked from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps and sees a group of seven or eight more participants arriving. A majority are women, with only about three other men. Unsurprising, most men want to keep their problems to themselves. Come to think of it, so did he, but that wasn't going to happen.

Not with a battalion of woman, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Harry, and Sarah, on his back about getting help. And Mike and Greg had thrown their lot in with the women as well. So much for loyalty. But he knew they all meant well, hence the reason he was actually here.

Forcing himself to pay attention, he noted the meeting was being called to order.

"Evening, everyone" Dr. Brickston begins, with a warm smile and overly jovial tone. It made John a bit ill.

"I've got a few new exercises for you all to work on this evening, but first let me introduce our newest member, John Watson." He gestures to John, who gives a half-wave.

 _Great._ The last thing he wanted was to be singled out. There was an inclusive murmur of greeting around the circle in his direction.

"Would you like to tell us about your experience?" Dr. Brickston prompts when John doesn't say anything.

 _Actually, I'd rather not. I don't even want to be here._ He purses his lips as if to keep his thoughts locked within his mouth and draws a breath, trying to soldier up and get it over with.

However Dr. Brickston senses his hesitation and offers "Perhaps you'd like someone else to talk first so you have a chance to settle in?"

John nods, gratefully and remains silent.  _Maybe I'll finally figure out what we've supposedly got in common._

"Anyone want to share? Feel as though you need to discuss something?" Dr. Brickston prompts and the stories begin.

At first John thinks his suicide theory is right when a burnet woman opposite him begins describing her reoccurring nightmares about discovering her husband hanging in the garage.

 _Nice to know I'm not the only one who wakes up screaming at night. Dr. Landon might be right._ Feeling encouraged he offers his full attention to the next speaker _._

But the next is about a man who lost his wife in a car crash when a drunk driver ran her off the road. Apparently severe road-rage is his coping method.  _Wait-what? So not suicide then?_

Then a college age girl whose fiancé was shot during a petrol station robbery. Then an older man who lost his wife to cancer. As the man is finishing his story about having a fear of the color blue because that's what she wore the last day of her life it dawns on John that this support group is for widows.  _Shit. Goddam it Dr Landon!_

The world seems to be unbalanced and the air is suddenly stolen from his lungs and the implications settle in.  _"People who have suffered a similar trauma"._  She thought they were together. Of course she did, everyone assumed it.

The realization is like a harsh cold slap in the face and before he can reason with himself he's off his cushion and storming out darkly muttering. The calls from Dr. Brickston go unheeded as he hurries down the hall as quickly as his limp will allow.

He doesn't seek a cab, but instead walks, limping determinedly through the cold air, reveling in it's numbing, cooling sensation against his hot anger and betrayal. How could she do that to him?  _We're not a couple._  And with no preparation.  _Just friends_  She misled him because she knew if he knew the sort of group it was he would refuse to go _._

 _She was right though, John_ A calming part of his mind argued _,_ sounding oddly like Molly.

 _No she wasn't. We weren't lovers_ He argues venomously.

Heturns sharply around a corner to take a shortcut down an alleyway he'd used a few times before.

 _You could have been_ Points out a mocking voice, causing John to swing around and punch the alley wall and swearing upon impact

"F-" he cuts himself off when he catches sight of something bright yellow on the wall.

Turning at the new dash of color, he finds himself face to face with a wonderful sight.

In almost offensively electric yellow were words painted across the wall.

**I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.**

Then another partially overlapping  **Richard Brook Was Fake. Moriarty Was Real.**

And another underneath  **I Fight For Watson.**

John nearly fell back at the last one. He'd heard rumors from Molly and Greg about the graffiti, but he assumed they were exaggerating in an attempt to cheer him. He'd never laid eyes on any until now.

He could scarcely believe it. Not only did people doubt Moriarty, have faith in Sherlock, but they still remembered  _him._ He was sure that he would be forgotten, after all he was nothing special. Nothing more than the poor fool who was taken in by the criminal genius of Sherlock Holmes.

Excited by his discovery he moves closer to examine the wall noting smaller messages scrawled across

 **Watson's Warriors.** He laughed in wonder

 **Sherlock Was Real** A broad grin breaks across his face. The first in months.

 **Damn Kitty Riley** A half-salute.

Then simply **I Believe** And suddenly it struck John.

People cared. People believed. And in that same moment he realized how horribly selfish he'd been the past months.  _You idiot_

Sherlock's name was still being drug through the mud. He died in disgrace and John, the one person he would've trusted with his career, failed him.  _I've just been hiding from it all._

He holed himself up in his work and his grief, letting Sherlock's name remain tarnished.  _That simply won't do_

With sudden resolve he spun on his heel, hailed a cab and headed for Scotland Yard. It wasn't until he was partway there that he realized he'd forgotten something important.


	6. The Yard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John attempts to talk to Lestrade about working to restore Sherlock's good name. But he isn't over his grief yet and shadows of the past have a way of ruining the best intentions.

His trip to Scotland Yard is a blur. How long had it taken? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? He couldn't say. Time blended into a meaningless fog as he wrangled with his suddenly vibrant emotions. For the past seven months it's as though every sensation within him was muffled. As though someone fastened a silencer on his brain and all his input and output was deadened because of it. The only things that ever pierced him where grief and anger, but even that dulled after the first three months.

Not now though. It seems as though suddenly, miraculously, all his afflictions have fled.  _Finally._  The oppressive weight of his despair. The bizarre fog that entrapped his mind, filtering out all light and joy that attempted to seep in from the outside world. He can see in colour again. He face doesn't feel cast in stone, he can move it freely now. He can laugh, without a wry, shadowed undertone. He can smile, without a touch of grimness lingering in the corner. He can breathe again.  _Like my first day with Sherlock._  The unbidden thought shadows his enthusiasm, sobering him up.

It's just as well that it does though. In his brief moments of hysteria and elation he envisioned himself strolling into Greg's office as he'd done dozens of times before. He would like nothing more than to march in, head held high, knowing that his mission will turn the Yard's world upside down again. Ignore the sudden wave of whispers and protests at his appearance. Head straight to Lestrade's office, greet him with a smile and swing the door shut with a satisfying click.

But now as he's confronted with the door he remembers that he can't just stroll in like this. Not after everything that's happened. He nearly got himself locked up for socking the Chief when they tried to take Sherlock away. The only thing that kept him from being drug into a cell after Sherlock's death was Mycroft. At least the disloyal sod was good for something.

Once Scotland Yard was like a second home. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration as Sherlock didn't like hanging about the Yard more than necessary; but they were still there at least three times a month to give statements or work on cases. Now it seems that the cool glass doors are giving off a distinctly unwelcoming vibe.

He hesitates for a few moments, debating how to proceed.

He knows that Lestrade was just released from probation last week and he's finally allowed to go out on calls again instead of pushing paper and handling briefings from his desk. John's appearance will just ruffle feathers unnecessarily. So instead he loiters about the front for a few moments before flipping out his phone and shoots him a quick text.

**3:25**

**Outside the Yard. Can you meet me? Important.**

_JW_

He paces anxiously, awaiting a response. Energy is rolling off him in waves, adrenaline coursing through his blood. He's got to do something. He feels as though he's lost precious time, distracted with his depression. Now he's got to make up for it _. I've been such an idiot. Christ Sherlock, I'm sorry it took so long_.

Lestrade, courteous as always, doesn't keep him waiting long.

**3:31**

Sure. I'll take a smoking break.

_GL_

John furrows his brow at the response. He didn't realize Greg had taken up smoking again. Course, he'd noted the sooty aroma that seemed to cling to him whenever they met up, but he simply hadn't connected the dots. It didn't seem important.  _How could I have missed that?_

Things must be really bad for Greg to go back to cigarettes. He'd always seemed so determined to stay clean. When John worked with him he knew that a pack of nicotine patches stayed in his patrol car and he even kept a spare in his wallet. Greg always said that was his "emergency stash" to be used in case he was working with Sherlock and didn't have access to his patrol car for some reason. Even when he found out his wife was cheating and planning on leaving him, he didn't touch one. Had one too many beers, but that was the end of it.

A slow tendril of guilt burns its way through John's conscience as he realizes just how out of touch he's been. He knows they have all suffered in the wake of Sherlock's death but he never gave much thought to their conditions. The weight and fog of his own suffering kept him so preoccupied that it eclipsed everything else _. Some friend I've been. We're supposed to support each other. Instead they've had to spend all their time bearing my weight._

Greg comes through the door and John practically pounces on him. His revelation of his ignorance has triggered his "Sherlock training" and now he's fervently scanning Greg's face, trying to read him.  _How is he feeling? Has he slept? Nightmares? Guilt?_

"You alright?" Greg inquires, laying a gentle hand on John's shoulder, unnerved by his uncharacteristic action.

John calms himself and steps back. "Yeah, sorry – you – uh – you just don't look well." He says, his brows furrowing in concern.

Greg finds himself biting back a smile at John's tone. This is a side of him that's been lacking ever since Sherlock's death. It's starting to feel like he's getting the old John back.

"What's so important that you had to drag me away from my filing?" he asks, pulling a cigarette pack from his pocket.

John's eyes flick to the package in his hand and back up to his face and Greg can read the sadness. He considers slipping them back into his jacket, for John's sake, but doesn't. He needs his coping methods.

"Its – uh – it's about Sherlock." John starts off, struggling for control as the acrid scent of smoke swirls towards him, far too familiar. It harkens back memories of Sherlock's blackest days. Times when cases were scarce and John would return home from the clinic to find air like fog, bitter and earthy. Sherlock had usually done in at least a pack and would be sulking on the sofa, wrapped in his cobalt dressing gown.

" _Sherlock?" his gentle inquiry was always answered with a muffled grumble. He'd leave the door open and attempt to stifle his cough as he removed and hung his coat. Oftentimes Sherlock would scrunch even tighter into a ball at the sound of his movements as if they grated on his nerves. "You want some tea or something?" John would ask and Sherlock would refuse. Either through cold silence or a derisive snort. John would go into the kitchen and set the kettle up before calling into the sitting room "You really should eat something. I know the tobacco deadens your appetite but your body needs food." And Sherlock would roll of the couch and stand in a sudden fit of vitriol and shoot back something along the lines of "I'm not a child John! I can care for myself." Before stomping off to his room. John hated those days. The time when even he couldn't pierce Sherlock's armor and he was forced to sit, useless, while Sherlock's great mind tore him to pieces._

"What about him?" Greg asks, jerking John into the present. John clenches his jaw at the tendrils of smoke escaping Greg's mouth as he speaks. Yellowed teeth. Tired eyes. Hunched shoulders. Depression. Exhaustion. The doctor in John catalogues the symptoms, but is unable to assist him.  _Useless_ a voice seems to hiss from within his head and before he can think he's knocking the offending cigarette from Greg's hand.

"What the  _hell_ , John?!" Greg barks his tone a mingling of surprise, reprimand and confusion.

"You shouldn't be smoking Greg. It's not doing you any good." John explains his voice firm and unapologetic.  _You're better than that. I need you at your best for this_

Incensed Greg snaps back "Yeah, and you shouldn't be working nearly 50 hours a week. You shouldn't avoid meals and skimp out on therapy sessions. You shouldn't spend all your free time holed up in 221B or at _his_  grave, acting as though your presence makes on ounce of difference! But I'm not giving  _you_  a damn lecture about it!"

John clenches his jaw, trying to stem the flow of angry words that threaten to spill forth.  _Don't say something you'll regret. Just breathe._  After a few moments His militant control over his emotions is reestablished and he blows out a steady breath.

"Maybe you should just go back inside" he suggests, his enthusiasm and determination gone entirely.  _Who am I kidding? I can hardly handle myself, let alone Sherlock's shade_. When Greg makes no move to he continues "I'm sure you're busy. We can just talk later. Sorry for bothering you." There is no warmth in voice though. The words are delivered in a cold monotone that detract from their intended meaning.

Greg draws a sharp breath and runs a hand over his face. "Right. Fine then." And tosses his hands in the air, partial exasperation, partial surrender; headed for the door. When his slate grey from disappears through the door John turns sharply on his heel, noting a slight painful twinge in his leg.

He swears under his breath and hails a cab so he can retrieve his cane.


End file.
